Page 29 of Backward Motion

Connor laughed at the memory. “That’s right. I got out of gym class and into detention. Fair exchange, mind you.”

“You were a real renegade, Finnis. No one could touch you.”

The sweat cooled on Connor’s skin. It was strange to think about the him from before. In a way, Sam was right; Connor hadn’t cared whether he was popular or derided, labeled a loser or a burnout. Yet the prospect of anyone seeing who he really was had filled him with a paralyzing terror.

“Classic self-sabotage. When you think you’re nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose.”

Sam studied him, his expression unreadable. “You don’t still think that, do you?”

Connor shook his head with a smile. “I ditched the nihilism around the same time as the piercings.”

They sat in silence. The floodlight towering above them cast an eerie shadow across the blanket of neatly mown grass.

“Do you ever feel you’re having the hardest time, only to find out everyone’s doing much worse?” Sam mumbled. He was staring down at the grass, yanking it blade by blade from the ground. “So then, how can you justify how useless you are at dealing with your own shit?”

The question landed square in Connor’s gut. He recalled Mrs. Bryant’s observation: “He’s more sensitive than he lets on.”

“You don’t have to justify it,” he replied. “All you can do is work with what you have.”

“It’s embarrassing,” Sam muttered. “How poorly set up I am to deal with the world.”

Not for the first time, Connor was compelled by an overwhelming urge to pull Sam close. It took all his restraint to keep his arms fixed at his sides. “From where I’m standing, you’re doing a pretty decent job.”

Their eyes met for the briefest of seconds before Sam looked away. “You’re sitting down.”

“All right, smart ass,” Connor said, getting to his feet. “You’re coming with me.”

Sam stared up at him, puzzled.

“I’ve just started watchingFleet Street, and you could use some cheering up.”

Sam hesitated for a moment before he stood, brushing the dirt from his hands against the sides of his jeans. “Okay.”

Connor lived in a neat one-bedroom apartment on the ground floor of a small residential complex a couple of blocks from the school. It didn’t take them long to walk there. As Connor stepped up to unlock the front door, Sam found it difficult to tear his gaze from the hem of the man’s shorts as they rode up his lean, muscular thighs. In his old life, Sam had loved eyeing the goods on offer, looking at men, and having men look at him. A friend used to call it window shopping. A whirr of possibility accompanied each stolen glance. Sitting beside Connor on the grass, Sam had seen the tufts of black hair peeking from beneath the arms of his tank top and caught a hint of his musky scent. It made him miss the closeness of being with someone, layingclaim to their limbs and lips, the comfort of their familiar smell. The past few months had left him bereft.

Connor looked so different in his running gear; Sam hadn’t recognized him at first. He’d been zoned out, smoking a cigarette he knew he shouldn’t be smoking, when Connor had appeared out of nowhere, catching him by surprise. Sam wasn’t sure why he’d ended up at the high school after storming out of his parents’ house—perhaps those old yearbooks had spurred a bout of nostalgia. It certainly wasn’t because the place conjured any fond memories.

Once inside the apartment, Connor excused himself to wash up, and Sam stood in the living room, flipping through his impressive collection of LPs—Paul McCartney, Depeche Mode, The Black Keys, Slipknot. It didn’t strike Sam as an attempt to capitalize on a new trend but more a full-blown obsession. Browsing Connor’s music collection was like staring into the mysterious depths of his soul.

When Connor emerged from the shower in a hoodie and gray sweats, wet hair dripping onto a towel around his shoulders, he looked so charming and fresh-faced Sam tried not to think of him only standing naked under the hot water only moments before. Sam studied the sleeve of an early Fleetwood Mac album to distract himself.

“You have a bunch of limited editions,” he remarked. “But a weird way of categorizing. Bob Marley next to Metallica’sBlack Album?”

Connor smiled and rubbed the towel through his hair. “Surprisingly complementary.”

Sam laughed and placed the record back on the shelf while Connor stepped into the kitchen and began filling the jug in the sink.

“Coffee, tea, cocoa?”

“Just water, thanks,” Sam replied, moving over to the bookshelf and running his finger along the spines. There were a couple of graphic novels he’d heard about, a handful of classics mixed inamong the pulpy action thrillers, and too many trivia books to count, including1,000 Facts to Know Before You DieandThe Complete Encyclopedia of American History.

“What, no comments?” Connor baited from the kitchen.

“Your books are as obscure as your taste in music. You’re a tough nut to crack there, Finnis.”

“I told you, I’m full of surprises.”

Connor brought a steaming mug of tea and a glass of water into the living room and set them down on the coffee table. Then he picked up the remote and turned on the TV to queue up the show.